


Ways and Customs

by appleapple



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleapple/pseuds/appleapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The ways of the Elves are strange,” he said at last.</p>
<p>“The customs of the Dwarves are strange,” Legolas was quick to retort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways and Customs

Rooms had been found for all the company in the Houses of Healing, but Gimli lingered near Aragorn as he tended the Hobbits. He had been as anxious as any of the Fellowship for Frodo and Sam’s safety, and as joyous at their rescue, but he would not be satisfied until he saw them awake and whole for himself. 

The room was light and airy, and smelled not of sickness but of polished wood and bitter herbs, but still Gimli could not bring himself to leave.

They lay so still and small in the bed.

“You should rest, Gimli,” Aragorn said, catching sight of him. “Frodo and Sam will be well.”

“I slept riding back from the battle,” Gimli replied gruffly. “Though if you had told me I would do so, riding on the back of a horse, I would never have believed it!”

“You must have been tired indeed,” Aragorn said calmly.

Gimli gave him a mistrustful look, as if he suspected Aragorn of jesting, but the King kept his face perfectly sober and composed.

“In truth, he only drowsed,” a new voice said. Gimli felt the light touch of hands upon his shoulders; he did not need to turn to see who stood behind him.

“I will take him from you now, Aragorn, so that you may work in peace.”

Gimli allowed himself to be led away. “Ah, Elf,” he sighed. “You must be tired yourself! That was hardly a jab equal to your wit!”

Legolas turned his head away, but not before Gimli saw the hint of a smile, and he was pleased that his arrow had found its mark. 

The Elf led him down a short flagstone passage, and opened the door to a simply furnished room. Their weapons and gear were already inside, and there was a single bed, some shelves and chests, and a tapestry bearing the White Tree. But best of all were two tubs filled with very hot water.

“They have laid baths for us, and fresh clothes,” Legolas said. He hesitated a moment, as if he would say more, then crossed to the far side of the room and quickly removed his garments. He was elegantly reclining in the water before Gimli had even removed his gloves. 

Gimli favored him with a sour look, but he had soon stripped away his clothes and armor with the ease of long practice. Legolas was turned slightly away, to give him privacy, which both touched and amused him. The modesty of the Dwarves was well known, but Legolas had an incomplete understanding of it. 

This casual intimacy--a Dwarf and an Elf bathing together, even with Legolas’s back slightly turned--would have horrified the respectable Dwarves of Gimli’s youth. Nor was it only bathing; but dressing and undressing together, tending to each other’s wounds, comforting each other in the dark hours before battle or after grief and sorrow, and fighting alongside one another in nearly perfect harmony.

He had come far, far away from the prejudices and lies of his youth in this last weary year, and it shamed him now to think of his early disdain for his friend. The Dwarvish virtues were generosity, loyalty, and love of kin, craft, and fighting. He had come to see those virtues embodied in the tall Elf now sitting with his back to him. It was Legolas’s skill in battle he had first come grudgingly to admire. His swiftness with arrow and knife had saved Gimli’s life more than once in the forsaken halls of Moria. 

Then, in Lothlorien, it had been the Elf’s generosity that had impressed him. Gimli had felt truly alone, amongst all the company; the only Dwarf amongst Elves, Men, and Hobbits. His grief for his people, the great Dwarven city of his ancestors now overrun with foul creatures, and the death of the Wizard had been as keen as a knife pressed to his heart. It had been Legolas that had taken his hand, and asked him to walk with him within the forest.

Legolas had sought him out, alone above all their company and his kin, and he had wondered at it. But the grief had been eased, and he had found that Legolas was a good companion. He knew when to speak and when to be silent, he had a sharp humor that had had startled Gimli from dark thoughts many times, and he had a keen eye for beauty that Gimli could not help but admire. 

And how many times had Gimli watched those long, clever hands at work? He had seen Legolas make little wreaths and crowns of flowers, as idly but with as much skill as one of his own kin would twist a gold wire into a beautiful chain. He had seen him gather branch and feather to make his arrows, and watched him frown in concentration over balance and fletching beside countless campfires. He had watched Legolas with the same joy of heart he felt whenever he saw anything beautiful being made.

The depths of Legolas’s ferocious loyalty he had understood at last on the plains of Rohan, when he had raised his bow to defend Gimli against a company of mounted riders. Foolish, yes and reckless, too but brave--and what Dwarf could not but admire such courage?

“You are woolgathering,” Legolas said, daring to peek at him.

Not trusting himself to speak Gimli nodded, and slipped into the water. It lapped as high as his chin. After a moment he ducked his head underneath and furiously scrubbed his unbound hair, then he sat back and allowed the heat to soak into his bones. 

For a long time neither of them spoke or moved. They simply enjoyed the quiet and comfort after many hours of wearying toil on the battlefield. There was a brush nearby, and Gimli idly began to clean his hands and nails with it, and then to scrub in earnest. 

When he began to work on his hair he realized his mistake, and he cursed quietly to himself.

“What is it?” Legolas asked.

“I forgot my comb,” Gimli said, looking across the room to where his pack lay, far out of reach. 

“I will get it,” Legolas said. “I have finished, anyway.” 

Gimli saw him slip from the water out of the corner of his eye, and quickly put on the white tunic and trousers that were nearby. He did not ask permission to search Gimli’s bag; he took it for granted that he had the right, and Gimli was once again pleased and touched by the intimacy of the gesture. He would not have allowed a stranger to rummage amongst his things, but Legolas was no stranger, and it was not the first time he had fetched something that Gimli had forgotten.

When he returned with the comb Gimli would have taken it from him, but Legolas made no move to hand it over. He knelt behind Gimli and took hold of his hair with one hand, beginning to comb it out with the other, as if this were simply the next step in an established routine. 

Gimli was too surprised to speak. Legolas laid the comb against his hairline and then slowly dragged it back, his long capable hands making quick work of the knots and tangles.

His father and mother had brushed and braided his hair for him many times, as well as his friends and cousins on occasions when ceremony and custom called for it. 

This felt different. It was not the familiar, barely noticed touch of family; it felt strange, but intensely pleasurable. He could feel the occasional touch of a callous against his sensitive skin, the soft pad of fingers against his scalp, Legolas’s knuckles brushing his ear. When Legolas paused to fetch a ewer of clean water he had to stop himself from sighing in frustration and disappointment. 

“Lean back your head,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli did so, but the cool water that poured over him did nothing to douse the flame that had been stoked within him. 

Legolas combed out his hair a final time, and then dried it, rubbing hard against his scalp with the rough cloth and more gently against the rest of his hair. When it was nearly dry he braided it; a soft, loose, single braid, good for sleeping.

Neither of them spoke; Gimli did not know what to say. Whether he should give thanks for a service he had not asked for, and perhaps enjoyed too much. Legolas seemed to think nothing unusual had occurred, and so Gimli wondered if this was simply some Elf custom he did not understand. But he did not like to ask.

He dried himself and dressed, and eyed the single bed with trepidation. Legolas did not sleep much, of course, even after long toil. Very likely he would soon rise again and leave. But this thought made him no happier.

Legolas’s voice startled him from his reverie. “The bed is not too high, Master Dwarf? Or do you require assistance?”

Gimli barked out a laugh. “A fine thing, to be sharing a bed with an Elf. I would not have dreamt it a year ago.”

“No,” Legolas said, not meeting his eyes. “Nor I. And now?”

“Now I am happy to sleep,” Gimli said, climbing on to the bed. “I would almost say I could share a bed with an orc, I am that tired.”

“Ah. You flatter me,” Legolas said flatly, drawing the cover back to join him.

Gimli smiled. “We have shared a boat, a horse, and now a bed, haha! What other Dwarf and Elf could say the same?”

“It is a friendship that is unmatched, I think...at least since Celebrimbor and Narvi…”

Gimli looked up sharply at that, but Legolas had turned his head away, only glancing back at him under his eyelashes almost shyly.

Did the Elf know that there was a sly double meaning to his words? Or was he only trying to be kind, in comparing their own friendship with that legendary partnership? Gimli felt himself to be on dangerous ground, as dangerous as the Dead Marshes, where any wrong step might send him to a place he could not easily return from. 

“And what do the Elves say of Celebrimbor and Narvi?” Gimli asked cautiously.

Legolas, to his amazement, blushed; that seemed to be answer enough.

Gimli looked with new wonder upon his companion, as if he had just been given key to a coded map. Certain gentle touches, looks, shared jokes and embraces that had accumulated over the past weeks and months, like leaves piling up on the forest floor, were cast in a new light. Had the Elf really been trying to ensnare him all this time?

Legolas was still watching him uneasily, as if he did not know whether to expect censure or offense.

“The ways of the Elves are strange,” he said at last.

“The customs of the Dwarves are strange,” Legolas was quick to retort.

“Aye,” Gimli replied with a chuckle, taking Legolas’s hands in his. “But not so subtle as the ways of the Elves.”

The color in his face seemed to deepen, and still he would not meet Gimli’s eyes. But now he smiled. 

“I would not say that I have been subtle,” he said, and Gimli roared with laughter. 

“My poor Elf,” he said, kissing Legolas’s hands. “And you thought me thickheaded before! Alas, alas, it will always be my great sorrow that I understood you then: to what new liberties would I have been subjected, had I remained blind? Alas for poor Gimli! Now I will never know!”

But this was too much for Legolas; shaking with joy and relief and mirth he tackled Gimli, as if to prove all at once that he was quite mistaken, that Legolas was capable of taking or inventing whole hosts of new liberties. But, though he was the taller, in a contest of grappling he was at a disadvantage and Gimli soon had the upper hand.

Gimli, having pinned Legolas quite fairly, and holding his hands above his head where they could do no further mischief, examined his prize. He felt as he had felt at his first grown-up feast day: with every kind of delicacy laid out before him he did not know where to begin.

Legolas was watching him with an expression of carefully schooled solemnity, but underneath that false mask he could see a range of emotions: humor, affection, pride, delight. It pleased him that he could know this Elf so well, know his moods so well, and yet there was still a vast hidden cavern to discover, and he felt the thrill of it as much as any adventurer standing at the entrance of a new and unknown world.

Unable to keep up the pretense of his victory any longer he released Legolas’s hands, which came at once to encircle his waist, and murmuring a Dwarvish endearment he bent his head to kiss Legolas on the mouth. 

Even in his wildest imaginings he had not dreamt of this; Legolas leaning into him, cool and sweet as the rain on a summer’s day, his mouth so soft and open and inviting, the heat of his body, the clasp of his arms.

Legolas touched his face; they were side by side now. “I never thought to be so happy in life,” he said.

“What is this?” Gimli asked wonderingly. “Do you speak my own thoughts aloud to me?”

Legolas smiled. “You are not so surprised, after all.”

“Did you think I would be?”

“I hoped. I had hope. But I did not know. You are a Dwarf, after all!”

“And what does that mean?”

“Only that I did not know. If you turned to me in friendship...or...or something more. And what did you think?”

Gimli stroked the fair hair, marvelling that he could now do so whenever he liked. How often had the urge come to him, sitting across campfires and feast tables, and yes, even battlefields?

“I did not allow myself to hope. I thought you as far beyond my reach as the stars. And twice as beautiful! But I have loved you for a long time.”

The look Legolas gave to him then was radiant. The next kiss so intense Gimli felt dizzy, as if from strong drink. Legolas’s hands had come to rest underneath the hem of his tunic, on his bare skin there, and Gimli could only shudder at the pleasure. 

“What is it?” Legolas asked. “Should I not?” He made as if to remove his hands and Gimli stopped him, only shaking his head. He did not want the Elf to hear the tremor that would surely be there if he spoke. 

“I would not hurt you. You must tell me if I do wrong,” Legolas said, sounding frustrated with himself. 

Gimli laughed, and said something Dwarvish; Legolas tilted his head. “What is that? It sounds like poetry.”

“I see the stars,” Gimli said. “There is more; I will tell you later…” His voice was heated, a mischievous promise, and he kissed Legolas again.

“Ah!” Legolas said, pulling away, as if a new idea had just occurred to him. “Such things are spoken of among the Dwarves then?” he asked archly. “I had begun to wonder whether the legends were true and you carved your children from stone after all…”

Gimli burst out laughing. “We have our own love poems,” he said, “But I will not tell you any in that spirit; you must be gentle, and kind, and loving…”

“Very well,” Legolas said meekly, and quick as lightning he had covered Gimli’s body with his own; his hands were back against Gimli’s bare skin, burning hotly, and he was gently pulling up the hem of the tunic while Gimli could only burn beneath him, and touch his skin in caresses he hoped were not so clumsy as they felt to him. 

Legolas had no complaint. They were nearly naked when he stopped his rough kisses to lean above Gimli, his weight resting on one arm while the other stroked the Dwarf from waist to collarbone. He gazed down, and Gimli realized all at once that Legolas was finally allowing himself to look his fill; that all the times the Elf had turned away from him when they had bathed or undressed had been for his benefit only; that the few times he had thought the Elf had glanced lingeringly in his direction had not been his imaginings after all. 

The thought made him burn the more hotly; he had not expected the Elf to find him beautiful as well. 

He pulled Legolas down, and felt the slim, muscular hands push against his hipbones, the fabric being dragged down and off, and now, yes: they were pressed naked, skin to skin, and his heart beat faster.

“You must tell me, if I should stop, if I should do anything you do not care for…” Legolas repeated, and again Gimli laughed.

“It is my first time drinking from this cup,” he said, “but what could you do to hurt me?”

Legolas looked at him searchingly, but saw that it was true. Gimli was only laughing and lighthearted, entrusting himself wholly to Legolas’s care. 

“Melamin,” he murmured into Gimli’s shoulder, followed by a torrent of Elvish that for once Gimli seemed able to understand. 

“May I touch you here?” he asked, kissing Gimli’s neck, “Here?” his chest, “Here?” his ribs, and each time receiving a, “Yes!” he grew bolder, his hands moved lower, “Here? Here?”

“Yes, yes,” Gimli said, breathless between kisses. In truth he was glad to have Legolas lead him through this unknown wood. He had not been down these paths before, but he slyly suspected that the Elf was not unfamiliar with them. There was no grudge there, only amusement for the strangeness of creatures that could separate physical pleasure from love; Dwarves could not.

“Legolas, wait!” he said suddenly, and Legolas froze above him, although his breath came rapidly, as close to laboured breathing as Gimli had ever heard. Gimli was not too distracted to be delighted by that--he had been annoyed often enough by the Elf’s long stamina during days of endless travel, and he was pleased to see that he could be strained, after all.

Gimli took both of Legolas’s hands, in his, and he said, “Legolas, I love you, and I pledge myself to you heart and soul, for all my days,” first in the language of his own people, then translated for the benefit of his lover.

Legolas sighed. “Yes, you did promise me poetry, did you not?” He repeated the pledge, and kissed Gimli firmly. 

“I see the teasing in your eyes, Gimli, do not think that I am blind!” he said sternly. “Elves love only once--”

“Ah, but like Men I think you might sometimes go to bed without loving--”

Legolas groaned and laughed and covered his face with his hands. “To think that I am to be lectured--compared to Men--taken to task for youthful folly when I have been nearly chaste compared to some I could name--”

“Peace, peace,” Gimli said, kissing him. “I begrudge you nothing in this life, dearest heart. It makes no difference to me whether you have had one lover or one thousand. But I will love only you; I wanted you to understand.”

“Then you are the most generous of lovers,” Legolas said, kissing him and taking his head into his hands. “Gimli, I have never loved another, and I never will. I will love you all my life.”

“Then we are bound.”

“Yes,” Legolas, and then with a wicked grin added, “Or nearly.”

They lay down again. “Here?” 

“Yes! I told you that.”

“You are certain? I would not cause you any dishonor--”

At this Gimli laughed the hardest yet. “You are a strange creature Legolas! Tell me, what dishonor could there be in giving yourself to one whom you love? To whom you are bound?”

Legolas kissed him deeply. “Melamin, I am ashamed. All my life I was taught that Dwarves were the most greedy and selfish of creatures; it is not so. I have never known anyone as generous as you.”

Gimli returned the kisses but waved this aside. “Ah, and what cause did I ever give you to love Dwarves?” he asked. “It was you who reached out your hand in friendship first. Think you I have forgotten that generosity? And still we both have much to learn.”

“That is so,” Legolas said, bright eyed.

“So teach,” Gimli said gruffly, pulling him close.

Legolas was only too happy to oblige him. His hands were clever and he touched Gimli until he was gasping and aching and filled with longing.

Gimli touched him then, stroking between his legs, taking hold of the hardness there until Legolas was panting above him. Then he guided Legolas closer, pressing the tip of his cock to the entrance of his own body. He had no fear or notion of discomfort; only the certain anticipation of pleasure. He was not disappointed.

Legolas moved slowly, stretching him with only the tip of his member, but even that small joining was enough to make them clutch at each other in the pleasure and joy of union. 

Legolas moved forward, inch by careful inch, slow, slow rubbing against the tenderest parts of himself. Gimli had not known pleasure like this existed: dark, intensely private, joyful, intimate.

And the sound of Legolas--Legolas!--careful, calm, unruffled Elf--gasping and groaning above him like any flesh-and-blood creature--! That was almost the best pleasure of all.

“Gimli, Gimli,” he said, when he was pressed full length inside him at last, and the Dwarf, wanting more of that, more of this crumpled, desperate Legolas, urged him on.

Legolas had wanted gentleness, particularly this first time but it was too taxing to maintain. Gimli was no help at all, so tough and sinewy beneath him, urging him on just as in all of their contests of strength or wit or skill, and so he gave into the hot blood running through his body, thrusting harder.

Elvish delicacy dictated he take his pleasure second, and see to his lover’s first. Legolas, already skimming the thin edge of pleasure with less control than he had ever had in his long life, nearly despaired when he opened his eyes and saw the look of iron determination on Gimli’s face. 

He had thought that Gimli was being generous by allowing him to go first in this loving act; now he realized the Dwarf did not see things quite as he did. Whether it was Dwarvish custom or simply Gimli’s own particular brand of stubbornness he did not know, but he saw plainly that he would not win this contest; he had realized it for what it was too late.

“What shall I do?” he whispered in Gimli’s ear. “Do you drive me on before you?”

“Aye,” Gimli said with a smile that made him shiver. 

He gripped Legolas firmly, his hard, square fingers pressing into the Elf’s lower back and hips and Legolas shuddered, pressing on, hard and harder, until he came at last.

He was rewarded: Gimli then arched his hips in a steady rhythm, taking his own pleasure from Legolas, still hard and buried deep within him. Legolas took his thick length in hand, his fingers and palm still slick from the unction he had used earlier.

Gimli’s face was transported, his eyes closed and his mouth parted as he glided within Legolas’s hard, calloused grasp, even as he could still feel Legolas pressed inside him. It was only a few strokes until he came, and he shuddered through the aftershocks for a long time. 

Legolas held him, murmuring words of love and affection. He had given pleasure before and taken it, but never before had it returned to him overflowing, lapping at him like a gentle ocean. He held Gimli close and very soon the Dwarf lay asleep within the circle of his embrace.

 

 

Gimli awoke alone, but this did not trouble him. He stretched in luxury. Late mornings were not a thing he was accustomed to, and he knew that soon they would be traveling again, so he allowed himself to enjoy the warm bed and the feeling of peace.

Only a few minutes had passed before the door opened, and Legolas entered, carrying food. He set the tray down and brought tea to the bed, then curled around Gimli like an affectionate cat, with no other word than a soft murmured greeting.

They drank tea in companionable silence, and Gimli thanked Mahal for a lover that could be quiet in the mornings. After some time had passed Legolas said, “When I was a child my mother would bring me into her bed with her in the mornings, to drink tea with her.”

Gimli was no stranger to receiving precious things, and he knew how to care for them. He took this cherished confidence in exactly the spirit Legolas had intended, and he slipped an arm around the Elf’s waist.

“You have not spoken of your mother before.”

“No,” Legolas said, with a wry smile. “She went over the sea when I was but a child. In truth, I do not remember her very well. She had many sorrows, of which I think my father was not the least. In the end she could not master her grief.”

Gimli tried to digest this new information, wondering at the mother who would abandon her child to be raised by a cold, proud father whom she disliked. But Legolas had a loving heart; surely that must have come from her. 

“A sad tale,” Gimli said softly. 

“I have thought so, sometimes. But when I think of her my memories are all happy. So that cannot be so very sad.”

There was another long pause while they drank, and Gimli glanced surreptitiously at the tray piled high with sweet rolls; he thought he could eat a dozen. He knew from experience they would be filled with meat, or cheese, or vegetables and eggs, or studded with sweet fruit and nuts and custard. But he felt Legolas had not done divulging confidences this morning, and so he sipped his tea as patiently as he could.

“I saw Aragorn, early,” Legolas said over the rim of his teacup.

“Oh yes?”

“He knows,” Legolas said, in silky tones.

Gimli wanted to laugh: Legolas glowed with inner happiness and Aragorn was no fool. He had probably observed the Elf’s seduction long before Gimli himself had known of it.

“Ah,” Gimli said, stroking his beard to keep his composure, “Did you tell him?”

“He guessed what had happened. He could not understand the source of my happiness, though.” Legolas gave him a sideways glance of deep amusement, and continued, “In the end he was too surprised to believe it was true. But he wished me happy. Us happy,” he corrected.

“That is well,” Gimli said lightly. He was unsurprised by any of these revelations, nor would it have troubled him had Aragorn expressed anything other than his bemused congratulations. 

Surprised yes, because he counted the Man his friend, and knew him to be wiser than any other he had met. But he and Legolas would tolerate no disapprobation; no, not from friends, or their families, or their peoples. Already there was a sound foundation here, and Gimli could test his feet upon it and be pleased.

“Come and eat now,” Legolas said, drawing Gimli from the bed as if he himself had not been the source of the little delay. 

Gimli joined him at the little table with pleasure, and listened attentively as Legolas refilled his cup and told him of all the doings in the House of Healing that morning. Sam was awake, and Legolas thought that Frodo would be soon. Merry and Pippin were well, and Gandalf was in close conferences with all the high officers of the city in preparation for the coronation. Legolas had seen Eowyn and Faramir walking abroad that morning; he suspected a romance there.

Gimli listened to all this with gratification, picturing mornings many years hence when Legolas would tell him all that “happened while you were sleeping.” He did not know what he had done to deserve such happiness, but he would treasure it for as long as it was his to keep. It seemed almost as if he could see, spread out before him like a long, long tapestry his happy life: full of love, and friendship, and good works and acts and deeds.

Then he spoke to Legolas, telling him of his plans to bring his people south, to repair the damage to the great city and show his people the wonders of the Glittering Caves. Their hands joined over the table as they spoke of their hopes and all their tentative plans for the future. 

“Ah, we should go,” Gimli said, remembering the time. “It would please me to see Frodo and Sam awake and well.”

“Frodo will not awake for a few more hours,” Legolas said, his long fingers caressing the strong hand in his. “I have other uses for you, until then.”

“Oh, yes?” Gimli said, diverted.

“Yes,” Legolas agreed, kissing him. “Come here, I will show you…”


End file.
